Peel
by HeldAtRansom
Summary: People are like fruit. All their actions, their posturing are just other layers of skin. Once you peel back those layers, though, and get under all that skin, their skeletons, their reasons why, become exposed. When the Joker learns of Annie Dent, a relative of the DA in town just as he starts his torment, he spies a ripe, fleshy peach just begging to be peeled. [Set during TDK.]
1. les trois coups

**Peel**

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own any part of the Batman franchise or any creative content of Nolan's. However Annie, regardless of her borrowed surname, does, in fact, belong to me.

* * *

 **Chapter One: les trois coups – part I**

 _"There are doors that let you in_

 _And out_

 _But never open_

 _And there are trapdoors_

 _That you can't come back from."_

Pulk/Pull Revolving Doors – Radiohead

* * *

The streets of the Narrows were an eerie place to be after midnight, even in the outskirts.

Yellow-orange street lamps buzzed and flickered on, off, on again, drawing the nighttime insects in, out, in again—a perpetual tease. Surrounding buildings emitted no light much unlike the tall skyscraper buildings in the heart of the city. The clouds even seemed darker in the Narrows, the moon deliberately turning its face away from the dregs of Gotham. The recent rainfall had washed away the grime of the day, leaving behind that smell you get only after a particularly nasty storm. That, and smoke. And maybe the tiniest hint of rot.

Stray dogs barked at the air from a far away place, the shriek of sirens could be heard from blocks away, the occasional shouts of troubled tenants resounded, and yet Slade Wilson still felt an all-encompassing silence as he hurried down Roy Avenue. On this particular night, Slade Wilson found himself alone in his path; no other pedestrians, no vehicles. Just the way he liked it—and needed it to be for now.

The night was muggy and, as he found his feet moving faster than his breath could keep up with, Slade wished he could've been able to take off his motorcycle helmet and leather jacket. Beads of sweat rolled down his forehead, falling between his eyes and trickling down his cheeks to wet his sideburns. The back of his neck was damp, and he could feel the same sweat which had dampened his hair travelling down the middle of his back. His gloved hands itched from the heat. Even his crotch was making him uncomfortable.

He couldn't wait for this to be over, the close heat being only one of many reasons.

Tonight's case was an odd one.

When relaying the necessary information, the Boss had left out the most important detail: the target's identity. It wasn't done out of negligence either, no, the Boss was far too sharp to do that: it was because the Boss himself hadn't been told. Whoever had placed the hit—another anonymous deal completed over the dark web—had refused to disclose this pertinent detail, and that alone set Slade on edge. In other words, it was red flag #1.

Undertaking this job on the rigid reassurance that the target would be where he was said to be was incredibly risky and, admittedly, a bit naive. For all he knew, this could be a trap. He accepts the job, turns up at the location, and—oh, hello GCPD here, how ya doin' Slade?

But the Boss had insisted and Slade couldn't really fault him: whoever had been willing to shell out $5,000 _before_ the kill had taken place had made the bed for whoever the unlucky sod was, and he and his employer were more than happy to be the ones to tuck them in.

Crossing over and turning right, he headed down towards the closed burger joint—good, ol' Benny's—at the bottom of the road.

He'd grown up not too far away from the target's location and thus knew it like the back of his hand, like the pressure points in a neck, like the dismantling of a gun, like the exact centre point of a forehead. As he reached the corner of Marker and Burrough he noted the familiar monorail station at the other end, now boarded up and disused since the terror attack by that wackjob psychologist six months back. Shame. He'd frequented that station every morning and afternoon on the days he chose to go to school.

As he neared the pale yellow door he'd been notified of, he remembered the area dirtier, more unpleasant. Now, there was a marked decrease in graffiti on buildings and, to his surprise, the street lights weren't flickering here; the surrounding sidewalk was relatively clean, except the odd speckle of trampled gum. The nearby trash cans weren't overflowing and he hadn't spotted vermin yet.

All in all, this appeared to be one of the nicer areas of the Narrows now.

In spite of his usual stoic self, he couldn't help but feel a little bit prideful that his area was finally getting better. _Good. Maybe the new kids won't fall into the same trap of a life that I and so many others did._

Slade soon became aware that the phantom dogs had ceased barking and the sirens had stopped, prompting him out of his thoughts. A brief glimpse at his watch kick-started the faintest bubbling of familiar dread in his gut.

01.03 a.m.

It was time.

He was finding that, despite his best efforts and his remarkable abilities in his work, being a hitman wasn't getting easier to digest.

Although this was his job, he had to remind himself daily he had only just _started_ and that being hired to kill someone wasn't something he could grow accustomed to overnight. Yes, he'd been trained for this but he couldn't help thinking he hadn't been entirely _prepared_ for this.

Fishing in his pockets, he retrieved the key he'd been given by the Boss and unlocked the door in front of him. Unlike his apartment complex, this one had no front area, no communal area. Just a wall of lockers for mail to his right, a wall to his left, and stairs ahead of him.

So up he went.

He climbed the stairs two at a time easily with his long legs and reached the eighth floor in less than two minutes. As he reached the last step, he felt whatever sweat had been collecting at the waistband of his jeans run down his legs as his legs made the stretch. He shuddered at the gross sensation and almost gagged out loud. If he hadn't been on a timed watch, he wouldn't have rushed the stairs. Another shudder moved through him before he finally got his bearings.

A quick pat on his pockets—jacket, trousers, inside—reassured him his weapons were still there. Another glance around and, again, no security cameras. Odd. In a place like the Narrows he thought security would have been of the utmost importance. Then again, judging by the relatively clean streets perhaps there wasn't that much crime in this area, not that much to be worried about or afraid of.

An ill-advised and reckless decision.

He approached the hallway cautiously, careful to lighten his footsteps and minimise his body movements.

' _No noise, even if it's late and the place is dead. I don't want some fuckin' broad tellin' the cops she was woken up by some commotion down the hall.'_

That's what the Boss had said. And what Boss said, went.

Eventually, he slowed to a stop in front of a greyed–white door reading '804'. The unmistakable blare of a television set could be heard and once again he glanced around him. No-one. Good. Out of his pockets, he took a 9mm Beretta, a suppressor, and a full magazine. He watched around him as he fixed on the suppressor and loaded the magazine. A quick check of the chamber and he was good to go.

Breathing in deeply, he lifted his free hand and gave three knocks on the door.

Hey, a hit is still a hit even if there's been no break in.

The television set droned on at the same volume, leading Slade to believe the unlucky bastard was either deaf or asleep.

He waited a few moments more before giving a sigh. Of course, this wasn't going to be an easy job. It never was when he wanted it to be.

But before he gave up all restraint and patience and opened relentless fire on the door in front of him, before he allowed the obstacle course of a kill to begin, he decided to try the easy route: he reached out and grabbed the doorknob.

He twisted.

It turned.

And with a very faint click, the door popped open.

* * *

 _ **Earlier that day**_

The way Rachel looked at Harvey as she fixed his tie made him smile.

He guessed it was the hint of mockery that hid just behind her eyes which made him happy, content. He loved that about her: how she refused to take him seriously, how her response to most things he said was sarcasm or dry wit. She kept him down to earth. Kept him humble. There were times when a comment she'd make would take him completely by surprise, but more often than not he could predict when she was about to knock him down a few pegs. At that moment, he sensed she was about to do just that.

"I'm almost _embarrassed_ for you, Harvey. A man of your age and intelligence should be able to tie his own tie."

Her voice was exactly the way he had imagined it to be and she was giving him _that_ smirk. Harvey raised his eyebrows at her but couldn't stop the boyish grin from growing on his face.

"Hey, I'm sure I'm not the only one who finds these nooses hard to figure out."

Rachel snorted and let go of his tie. She patted the shoulders of his suit jacket, smiling at him. Just as she opened her mouth to let out another remark, Harvey grasped her hands and brought them to his mouth. He kissed them gently, silencing her immediately which, in turn, made him smile against her fingers. She could mock him all she wanted later.

Harvey pulled his head and hands away to check his watch. A disappointed sigh escaped his lips and he glanced at her. "If we don't get a move on, I'm going to be in some serious trouble." Rachel nodded and he watched as she went over to the bedside table on her side of the bed. Sitting down on the edge of the queen bed, he dragged his shoes over and placed one foot in one shoe. Suddenly, a fresh, floral aroma entered his nostrils, one he'd never smelled before, and he turned his head in his girlfriend's direction—she was dabbing liquid from a small glass bottle onto her wrists and neck.

"Hey," her blue-grey eyes met his and Harvey saw she was already smirking at him. Here we go. "Want me to tie your shoelaces as well?"

There it was.

Oh, how he loved her.

Staring at her blankly before rolling his eyes, he cleared his throat.

"Is that a new perfume? It doesn't smell like any of the ones I've bought you."

Rachel gave him a funny look as she put the bottle back into the drawer of the bedside table.

"Uh, yeah, Harv. It's the one your cousin sent to me for Christmas."

Harvey shrugged apologetically and shook his head.

"You've never worn it before, how was I supposed to know?"

She was looking at him as if she was waiting for something, her eyes searching his. For what though, Harvey didn't know. And if he stopped to care, they'd end up late. Rachel sighed and stood, walking over to where her suit jacket and bag laid on the lone chair in the corner. Harvey knew that sigh, although not the reason behind it this time, and so he stood after putting his shoes on. Following her, he linked his arms around her waist and rested his chin in the nook of her shoulder. Breathing in deeply and slightly nuzzling her hair, he gently patted her stomach and quirked his lips in a smirk of his own.

"Remind me to thank her some time for making you smell so _good_."

* * *

Harvey returned to his apartment that night later than he had wanted, drained and exhausted. A day full of meetings, case prep, and endless scanning and studying of documents tended to tire him out and to top it all off, he'd _still_ have to stay up late to finish his notes for the Maroni case the following day.

Opening his apartment door, Harvey stepped inside and gently closed it behind him.

"Rachel?" He called out as he entered the kitchen to his left and placed his briefcase on the nearest kitchen counter.

With a yawn, he shuffled towards the fridge and retrieved a half-opened carton of orange juice—no pith—and gulped down half the contents. "Rachel?" He asked his apartment once again, but this time froze when he heard the murmuring of not one but two female voices. One was undoubtedly Rachel's; the other he couldn't make out. It seemed vaguely familiar, stirring long-dormant memories in his mind, but differed slightly to the one he heard in his head.

"Harvey's home, let's go show him you're here."

Intrigued, Harvey returned the orange juice to the fridge and wiped his hands on his suit pants, waiting for the mystery guest to reveal themselves. With eyebrows raised, Harvey watched as Rachel and a tall, lithe blonde girl—no, woman—rounded through the doorway. Eyes stuck on the latter, his lips parted in shock as he found himself seeing his cousin in person for the first time in ten years.

The cousin who had once been so small that perching on Harvey's shoulders had been no problem whatsoever and her favourite mode of transport, the cousin who had always smiled her big gap-toothed grin at him with no hint of embarrassment, the cousin who had never been afraid nor ashamed to talk to him or tell him exactly how she felt, the cousin he'd made no effort to keep in contact with after an argument with her father, the cousin who'd gifted Rachel that perfume—that cousin, who was now here, somehow.

Standing just a couple inches shorter than him, her once short and frizzy hair was now long and hung wavy. Her smile wasn't as wide and no longer gap-toothed. Her once-confident, almost-brazen presence had been replaced with a cautious, awkward stance, reminding Harvey of a teenager coming to terms with an overnight growth spurt. She swayed slightly, her navy skirt rippling around her knees.

What a difference ten years had made.

"Annie."

The blonde smiled sheepishly at her older cousin and stepped forward, reaching out to him with a delicate hand.

"Hi, Harvey."

* * *

 _ **The Narrows: 01.06 a.m.**_

Slade couldn't believe it when the door opened away from him.

Regardless of how well this area seemed to be doing, leaving your own front door open in the Narrows was moronic and downright suicidal.

It was red flag #2.

Slade had been trained to prepare for more than one scenario and the cold, bony fingers of paranoia and suspicion crawled up his spine as a thought dawned on him: what if the door had been left open on purpose? His mind went back to the thought of cops. The likelihood of them waiting for him on the other side of the door was increasing every second he remained outside the apartment and he couldn't wait any longer, his anxiety would become too much.

If they were there, he'd open fire and, hopefully, they would return it. That way, he'd never have to talk.

Bracing himself and clearing his head the best he could, he pushed the door and stepped in.

When his foot squelched, he wished he hadn't.

An astounding smell of liquor, stale smoke, and expired food enveloped him, exacerbated by the heat due to lack of air-conditioning, and he had to stop himself from vomiting as he gently shut the door behind him.

Resting on the door, he breathed in and out through his mouth as the heat clung to him like a damp sheet, once wiping away fresh sweat from under his helmet and coming away with grimy dead skin under his fingernails.

The TV was booming, the noise of struggle and violence ricocheting around him, relentless in its pursuit of a victim.

This apartment was a complete bombardment to the senses; the worst he'd ever encountered.

It felt like he'd need to singe himself with bleach to shed the skin that experienced this.

It felt like he'd stepped into the very pits of Hell itself.

A few more deep breaths in, from his position he surveyed the apartment.

A wall to his left, the hallway ahead of him, and to his right an open door into a tiny bathroom: overhead light on, no-one inside. From his first look, it appeared clean enough except for the mold climbing its way up the tiles from the bath. And the damp on the ceiling. And the layer of filth on the mirror. And the scum around the toilet basin.

Wrinkling his nose he turned away and started his descent into the main area, padding down the sticky, damp carpet.

The wall to his left was bare and peeling, and the only sign of life from it was a small drawing he would have missed had the bathroom light not been on. Drawn in yellow, pink, and blue crayon, at around three feet high, was a little girl holding the hand of a much taller man. At their feet laid an orange and black cat of some sort, drawn bigger than the little girl. As if it were a pet tiger.

Had he been in another mindset, Slade liked to think he would have smiled at the childish cartoon.

But, in fact, it raised red flag #3 for him.

He had signed up to kill an adult. Now, there was a possibility that a young child might be involved. He didn't like this case at all and he would be lying if he said he ever had.

But what the Boss said, went.

Following the hall, he finally reached his destination.

It was set up open-plan.

A living area was set up in the middle of the room; a doorway leading to what Slade assumed would be a bedroom was further away from him on the right. To his immediate right on the other side of the bathroom wall was a kitchenette unit. In the area separating carpet from linoleum was a two-seater table, with only one chair.

Focusing back on the living area, he noted the curtains were closed over the only window in the room and the only source of light came from the tiny, old television set. On either side of the set nestled in amongst newspapers, discarded envelopes, and junk mail were two expensive black speakers, the source of the fracas. Once he'd finished with the target, Slade owed it to his own ears to take out the wretched set too.

In front of the television, facing away from him, was a tattered couch, the colour he couldn't discern in the available light. There were tears down its back, a spring poking out of one, and one of the armrests' cushion had detached itself completely, hanging over the edge like a limp arm. Empty bottles and crushed cans were scattered around nearby like one would place candles in preparation for a Big Night.

Slade edged forward around the back of the couch and away from the kitchenette, careful to avoid any of the mess he found himself wading through.

Standing at one end of the couch, an almost sardonic smile stretched its way across his face as he flipped his helmet's visor up. He had found just who he was looking for.

Laid before him in an uncomfortable-looking position was a man Slade estimated to be in his 50s, dressed in an off-white t-shirt and dirty grey long johns. His arms were underneath his head, elbows pointing to the ceiling, and his legs were stretched out, bare feet dangling over the seat. A blooming beer-belly had popped out from under the t-shirt and an opened packet of Skittles rested there on top like an obedient cat.

The bright yellow-blonde hair of the cartoon man was a stark contrast to the matted, greying mess on the man's head before him. In fact, the entire drawing was a contrast to this person. The cartoon had been a younger man, suggesting either that it hadn't been drawn recently or it was of someone else. Thank God for that.

The man's eyes were closed and the way the belly rhythmically heaved up and down informed Slade he was sound asleep. Good.

Lifting his gun, he prepared to aim but stopped halfway drawn. He still didn't know who he was.

Sure, he'd killed strangers before—it _was_ part of his job description—but he'd always known who they were on a factual level. Who said this guy could be different? What gave him the right?

In spite of his instructions, he decided to nose around a bit longer.

Reaching below him, he gingerly lifted one of the torn pieces of junk-mail hoping one of his questions would be answered.

Mr. O D– the paper was ripped and missing a large chunk.

He lifted another—same thing. Then another—same. Another—same.

With eyebrows drawn, he looked back at the man. _Just who are you, Mr. O D?_

Bedroom it was.

Much like the other rooms, it was a basic set-up. A queen bed in the middle, one bedside table on the right side, and a small chest of drawers opposite the bed with three photo-frames perched on top.

Moving into the room, he went straight to the bedside table and tipped out the drawer on the bed, leaving his gun on table. All that came from that were three untwisted paper clips, a keychain, a flyer for Benny's Burgers round the corner, and six cigarette butts.

Slade almost growled out of frustration. It was like the more he tried, the more evasive this mystery man's identity became.

The chest of drawers was the last stop before he lost his temper and patience completely.

A quick peek out of the door reassured him Mr. O D was still sleeping and he went back to the matter at hand. Just as he was about to open the first drawer, the photo-frames caught his attention properly for the first time and he faltered.

The first was a fairly large photo. Bright in colour, a younger version of the man on the couch was stood outside a church, dressed in a sharp, black tuxedo. Stood beside him, one hand in his, the other clutching a bouquet of red roses, was quite the beauty wearing a sleeved, white wedding dress. Both appeared to be laughing—him looking at her, her looking just above the camera—and confetti rained down around them. It was sweet, sure, but it didn't tell him anything he wanted to know except that Mr O D's life had seriously plummeted since the photo had been taken.

The next one was smaller, in a square frame, and Slade recognised the little girl in the photo to be the little cartoon girl from the wall. She was sat in a swing, a navy pinafore dress poking out around her legs, her almost-platinum blonde hair a bunch of tight, messy curls around her shoulders, a big gap-toothed grin on her face. Despite himself, he couldn't help but find her cute.

Upon closer inspection to the bottom right-hand corner, he saw the timestamp: 17.08.1991. _Well. At least I won't have to deal with any children tonight._

With a sigh, he returned that frame back to its place and reached for the last one, expecting the same conclusion the others provided.

Yet, as his eyes roved over Mr. O D on the left then onto the younger, blond man beside him, Slade felt his heart skip a beat.

Holding Mr. O D's hand in a firm handshake with one and a decorated scroll in the other, dressed up in graduation garb—mortarboard and all—stood a fresh-faced Harvey Dent.

Fuck.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** This story has been inside my head since 2008, and edited several times since.

I tried writing it back then but it didn't go as planned because it wasn't planned. Heat-of-the-moment fanfictions can work for some authors, but I lacked the potential and drive at that time to continue and develop it. Now, I think I've finally grasped it.

In those 9-11 years, it's undergone several changes in plot, direction, tone etc. I've changed my OC's background numerous times. I've added and removed characters here and there. I've changed the title more times than I can count, and I will undoubtedly be struck with new names for it even after I've posted it. It's been an arduous process mapping the ins and outs and connecting the ties, but I'm there.

Although I fear I may be too late in capturing an audience due to the stretch of time between TDK and this, I'm sure you'll know how it is once a seed is planted—it won't stop _growing_.

I'd like to note that this story will take place during TDK; this first chapter is set the night before Maroni's court date. However, I don't plan on detailing every little thing that happens in the movie because, well, that's _boring_.

This story will mostly follow Annie, the young woman who more or less cameoed in this, and will explore the themes of TDK applicable to her. Slade Wilson will also be followed to a lesser extent, as well as the Boss (just who might _they_ be?). Oh, and of course: the Joker will be featuring heavily in this. Duh.

I was going to say what else had inspired this other than the Batman franchise but it gave far too much away about what's to come. Soooo, you'll just have to wait and see.


	2. les trois coups, part deux

**Author's Note** : Thank you to everyone who has shown interest in this story so far—whether you've reviewed, favourited, or followed, I'm incredibly appreciative of and pleased by your interest.

I didn't mean for such a long gap between these chapters and for that, I apologise. After I posted chapter one, I fell ill for a month and thereafter I was dealing with a tough university year. Right as I was gearing up to write again, my laptop gave up the ghost the day before my last exam in December. Then, university kicked in again and I lost all motivation. Since the summer started and after delving back into reading TDK ff, my muse has been rearing its head, and so I've resorted to writing bits and pieces on my phone when I've not had the chance to sit down properly. So, apologies if there are any typos.

Additionally, I'll take this moment to note that I've edited chapter one. There's not much change, but the most important correction is the price quoted by Slade regarding Mr. O D. That was a typo: instead of $50,000 it should have read $5,000. That's pretty much it.

Now, on with the story!

* * *

 **Chapter Two: les trois coups - part II**

* * *

It took Harvey Dent a moment to register his cousin's greeting, still shocked by her appearance.

However, after the shock had dissipated somewhat, he was stepping forward, sliding his hand into hers and pulling her into a long-overdue hug, his other arm encircling her shoulders. He felt her chin press into his left shoulder, indicating that she was smiling, and her free hand patted his back gently. A genuine smile etched itself across his face as his eyes welled up for the first time in months.

"My God, Annie—it's been too long. This is such a welcomed surprise!"

Harvey pulled away to hold her shoulders in his hands and saw Annie looking at him expectantly, seemingly puzzled by his reaction. She was searching his eyes for something, not engaging with him further until she found it. And, as if a lightbulb had gone on above his head, he pulled back further to address Rachel.

"Your perfume! You put it on purposely this morning—it was a clue, right? Nicely done, you two," he smirked, slow-clapping three times to emphasise his approval. Rachel sighed and looked skyward, shaking her head as Annie laughed through her nose. Faintly, he felt her skirt brush his shin as she changed her footing.

"No, Harvey, _you_ arranged this." Rachel's hands were on her hips, a sign that meant she was _almost_ pissed off at him. Her eyes were now on Annie. "I told you he'd forgotten, didn't I?"

Harvey stared mouth agape at his partner, confusion evident on his face.

"Me?"

"Yes, _you_. After Annie and her mom sent us birthday presents, like my _perfume_ , you emailed to arrange a visit. Annie was going to be back in Gotham for the summer, anyway, and so you decided on this date. Honestly, your memory's like a sieve sometimes."

Running a hand through his hair, Harvey turned back to his cousin having adopted a sheepish stance.

"Jeez, 'm sorry, Annie. It's been a really busy time recently, what with the Maroni ca—"

"Harvey, it's cool. Don't worry about it, I understand," Annie smiled at him before adding, "Even if I haven't seen you in ten years."

Harvey stared at her wide-eyed, completely taken aback by the remark before he realised she was smirking at him. She laughed at his expression and gently punched his shoulder. "Just teasing."

Rachel chuckled and moved to rub Harvey's back, hoping to coax him out of his surprise. After a few seconds, he exhaled noisily and wiped the invisible sweat off his forehead.

"Well, as long as I haven't upset you personally," he chuckled warily and scratched his neck again. He froze suddenly as a thought entered his head. "Were we meant to go for dinner? Have you eaten? Oh, Jesus, I'm such a moron."

Annie laughed properly this time as Rachel rubbed his shoulders.

"No, no, we weren't. I mean, it would've been nice..."

Harvey gave her a look as she started giggling again. Rachel was laughing now too. Glad they were having fun with this. Rachel gently pushed off of him and squeezed past him to open the fridge.

"I'll make some coffee, you two should go sit down in the other room," she called over her shoulder before directing her attention to the coffee machine.

Harvey turned to find Annie looking at him, waiting patiently for his next move. With an awkward smile, he gestured to the doorway and nodded as if to say, 'After you.' Annie turned and headed back to the room she and Rachel had come from, whilst Harvey paused briefly.

"Why didn't you remind me?"

Rachel stopped to face him, and both of them were struggling to hide their indignation.

"I tried to—"

"The perfume was a hint, not a reminder, Rachel." He knew he was going to pay for that later, but he couldn't help it. He couldn't understand why she hadn't just mentioned it, reminded him properly, instead of turning it into a little game of guesswork. That wasn't fair.

Rachel scoffed at him, incredulous at his sudden attitude, and turned again.

"I'll be through with the coffee in a minute."

Harvey sighed, taking the hint, and went through to the living-cum-dining area.

Annie had chosen to sit at the dining table rather than on one of the couches, which felt odd to Harvey; he found it too _formal_ for a reunion between cousins. Still, he made no comment and sat, opting for the chair opposite her.

Quickly, Harvey resembled the picture of comfort: tie removed, first few buttons of his shirt undone, one leg splayed out under the table, the other sat normally. He ran a hand through his hair and stretched his other arm across the back of the empty chair beside him.

Annie was more composed—back straight, hands clasped on top of the table, and, from what Harvey had been able to see as he'd pulled out his chair, her feet were firmly planted on the floor. She reminded him of some of his clientele, which irked him. She was a kid, she didn't have to be this business-like—especially not with him, the cousin she'd once deemed the coolest guy she knew. But he understood that time and distance, especially large doses of the two, altered relationships.

And, now, he was experiencing the awkwardness that tagged along.

"So, it's been a while since I've seen you," Harvey started, a nervous smile on his face. "But we've still kept in touch. Obviously, not entirely recently but in touch enough for Christmas presents."

She was looking at him with furrowed brows. He understood why too—it seemed he'd completely lost the ability to have a normal conversation with someone. He shifted uncomfortably under her scrutiny and relaxed only slightly when Rachel appeared at the table with a tray of coffee, milk, and sugar. From her pant pocket, she pulled out a sleeve of cookies and placed it down. As she took to pouring everyone a cup, asking Annie, 'Milk, sugar?'—'Yes, and no, thanks'—she looked between the cousins before settling on Annie.

"How's med school going, Annie?"

Harvey could've kissed Rachel; of course, she'd know how to get the conversation started. A glance at Annie told him she was relieved by her question too.

"Well, I've only just finished the third year of my pre-med but I'll be applying to med schools in a month or two. Otherwise, I think it's going pretty well."

"Where are you again?"

"Uh, I'm at the University of Pennsylvania," she said, a small smile forming.

"You know, I don't think I'm ever less surprised—or less proud—every time you tell me that," Harvey remarked, one of his trademark, boyish smiles spread wide on his face. "You enjoying it? The boys there aren't giving you a hard time, are they?"

Annie laughed as he caught Rachel rolling her eyes as she sat down next to him.

"No, no, they're not. It's great, I'm really loving it so far. The social aspect is so much better than that of high school."

Harvey was genuinely glad for her. When he'd been at university, he'd never once let himself enjoy any other aspect except the academic—he had been there to learn, driven by the unrelenting urge to _do something_ , to prevent injustice and to protect his city from lowlife criminals, not to socialise or indulge in any debauchery that most young men do. There were times though, for example, times like now when he was working long hours on mobster cases, that he wished he had socialised, that he had been reckless and had let loose.

"Where do you think you'll apply to next year?" Rachel asked, leaning forward with both elbows on the table.

"Everywhere and anywhere," Annie snorted. "Honestly, with the competition and the extortionate fees these days, I'd be happy to just get into _a_ med school, end of."

Harvey let her drink some of her coffee before he started asking the question he had lined up.

"How's the money situation anyway? Are Oliver and Ellen helping out?"

At that, he watched his cousin blanch. Her tongue poked out to prod at the inside of her bottom lip and the crease in her forehead told him she wasn't too comfortable with what he'd asked. Slowly, she put her mug down.

"Uh, money's okay, I guess." She shifted and looked down at her hands, seemingly debating whether or not to divulge further. Harvey straightened a bit as he sensed they were headed into more serious territory. "I mean, Mom's now out there living in Philly so I don't need to worry about rent. But I've been working as a kitchen porter and a bartender for the past three years, literally doing as many shifts as possible with my workload and saving as much as I can."

Harvey nodded as he let her words sink in. He'd forgotten Ellen had left Oliver a while back. He could see it was a topic Annie herself wasn't too happy with and so thought it best to move on.

"What you going to be doing this summer then?"

Annie looked up again and this time, her shoulders seemed less tense. Good.

"Well, actually, I'm staying with my dad. Not been back to his yet since I just got in town but I'll head over there soon," she took another sip of her coffee. "The med schools are super keen on seeing almost months' worth of experience, be it in a hospital, a day practice, or first aiding, so I've applied to several of the hospitals here as well as a company who supply the first aiders for concerts, that sort of thing."

Harvey gave her an impressed look to which she shook her head.

"Oh, I've not heard from anywhere yet. Well, that's a lie. I've not heard _anything positive_ from anywhere yet."

Harvey frowned and shook his head. He was about to comment when Rachel spoke up first.

"Well, what about first aiding in the police? I mean, we know Lieutenant Gordon down in the MCU in the GPD, I'm sure we could talk to him?"

 _Hold on a minute—_

— _what?_

Harvey turned in his seat sharply and cut in just as Annie was about to thank her.

"Are you kidding me? You seriously want to have my little cousin first aid down in the MCU? Oh, sure, Rachel, why don't we drop her off in the Narrows in a bikini afterward?"

Rachel rolled her eyes, less humoured this time, and finished off her coffee.

"What, jealous she might get to meet the ever-elusive Bat before you do?"

Harvey blinked at his partner. She was surely surprising him tonight. From his left, he heard Annie clear her throat.

"If it is at all possible, I would really appreciate that," she levelled him with a pleading look. "I might not hear back from anywhere at all, and any experience is good experience." Harvey held her gaze, mulling it over in his head, before responding.

"Well, I can't say you'll be saying the same thing if Gordon allows you to join his team."

There was a moment before he saw it dawn on her that he'd not said no, but that he was considering it, that he would try with Gordon. And, God, did he love the smile she gave him for it.

Before any more could be said on the matter, a shrill ringing came from the coffee table by the sofas. Rachel stood, placing a firmer-than-necessary hand on his shoulder. Alright, she'll get it. He waited until he heard her answer and leave for the next room.

"So, I know I've not spoken to your dad in ten years, and I know that it's shitty I've not reached out," he started as he swirled the remnants of his coffee in his cup before downing them. "I just wanted to ask, though—how is he?"

If Harvey's eyes were true to him, he could've sworn he'd seen her actually _squirm_. She took a few moments before allowing herself to meet his eyes.

"Well, I've not seen him for a while. Not since Christmas. But we text every few weeks or so—"

"Annie, you know that's not what I meant."

She sighed.

"Well, you know, my parents split a few months after he fell out with you. He'd started underground betting rings at work, fun, harmless stuff at first. Then someone got dogs involved," she shuddered, he grimaced. "When he was found out, he went to jail for a bit. That's really when I started living with Mom more, because when he came out..." She whistled long and low as the sentence trailed off as if to emphasise the change in her father.

"He developed some real nasty habits in jail. He'd never been one to drink before and then, all of a sudden, he can happily drink almost an entire bottle of vodka every night? Mom was royally pissed off."

Harvey offered his best sympathetic look.

Although it was news to him about his uncle serving jail time—seriously, what the hell?—he'd known about the gambling and he could've even guessed the drinking, given that his father had ended up that way too. Suddenly, he wanted to reach across the table and take her hands in his and just _hold_ them, keep them safe. But they weren't at that stage yet.

"By the time I left for college, I barely recognised him. And he barely recognised me." She shook her head as she let out a shaky breath, and pushed her mug away. "To be honest, it's one of the reasons I wanted to come back this summer. I want to help him, you know? Mom says she tried but, I don't know, I still think she could've tried harder."

Harvey nodded as he idly ran a finger along the table.

"Do," he exhaled through his nose before sitting up properly, leaning across the table in the hopes of catching her eye again. "Do you think it'd help if I called him? If I got back in touch with him?"

The look in her eyes told him she honestly wasn't expecting him to offer that. She seemed so taken aback, so _pleasantly_ surprised by his extending of the olive branch.

"Harvey, I think he'd love that." She beamed at him and, because he now felt good in himself for cheering her up and possibly helping her put an end to a shit chapter of her life, he beamed right back at her.

At that moment, Rachel came back in the room. She glanced between the two cousins, a smile of her own forming on her lips.

"Wow, what's with all the megawatts then?"

Harvey reached across and patted Annie's hand before facing Rachel.

"I'll tell you later, who was on the phone?"

Rachel sat down again and crossed her legs towards him.

"That restaurant, the Ocelot? Yeah, they've brought our booking forward."

This time, Harvey was the one laughing. He turned to Annie, practically radiating arrogance.

"This maître d', or whatever, thought he could pull a fast one on me, ha! I pulled the city health inspector card and look where that's got us."

Over the course of the next few hours, the three of them chatted about everything and anything: the next big court cases, Annie's experiences as a bartender and kitchen porter (good _and_ bad), as well as reliving some of their favourite memories from when both cousins were younger.

At some point during the night, pizza had been ordered and delivered, beers had been passed around, the TV had been turned on, and they'd swapped sturdy, upright dining chairs for the comfort of the large sofas.

Just as Harvey was about to bring up one of _his_ favourite memories, Mike Engel for Gotham Tonight popped up—it must be ten o'clock—with Breaking News.

"Tonight in Gotham Tonight: Breaking News. It's been reported that multiple Bat- _men_ have been sighted across town, most particularly in a parking lot downtown where it is believed they crashed a drug deal between Russian mob leader, the Chechen, and the masked criminal known as the Scarecrow," Engel paused as footage showing the _real_ Batman being attacked by three Rottweilers started to play.

"However, due to an appearance by the Batman, it is believed that none of the Batmen were seriously injured, Dr. Crane was apprehended and taken into custody. Unfortunately, the Chechen and his men escaped arrest. "

Harvey sighed as the other two watched on.

"In other news: earlier this afternoon, Gotham City Bank fell victim to a heist of an astonishing sum: approximately $68 million, with several casualties found at the scene. It is said that the culprit, the man believed to call himself the Joker, escaped in a school bus as schools let out for summer. Currently, he is still at large and the investigation is ongoing."

Harvey groaned, reached for the remote, and muted the TV.

"Enough. Just once I want Mike Engel to come on and announce that absolutely nothing horrible happened in Gotham today. Just _once_. Would that be so hard?"

Rachel laughed and patted his leg.

"I'm sure he wants to be able to say something like that too."

Annie snorted and started to yawn as Harvey drained the rest of his beer. Stretching forward, she sat up and started to stand.

"Anyway, I should be heading over to my dad's," Annie sighed, placing her empty beer bottle on a coaster on the coffee table. A quick glance at his watch and Harvey was standing too.

"No, absolutely no way. Not at this time, Annie. He's still living in the Narrows, right?"

"Yeah, but that area's doing well n—"

"You're not going tonight. I don't care if the area's up and coming, or 'doing well'. It's a risk I really don't want you to take, not when that kind of stuff is kicking off out there along with all the rest." He gestured blindly at the TV. Annie's eyes followed and there it was again, the blurry security footage of the Scarecrow gassing fake Batmen.

Harvey cleared his throat.

"We have a guest room—it's small but it'll do for tonight."

Harvey watched as his cousin's shoulders visibly dropped and her head nodded in defeat. He smiled and held a hand out towards the direction of the spare room. "Great. Let's go get you sorted, then."

* * *

 **The Narrows, 1:11am.**

Slade could've been sick there and then.

All the red flags he'd counted, all the unease about being kept in the dark about this guy, all the dread building in his stomach hadn't been for nothing, after all.

He sidestepped to stand in the doorway, eyes moving from photograph to person on the couch and back again, and with a shaky exhale, he dismantled the frame to retrieve the photo. On the back he found written in pencil, 'Uncle Oliver and Harvey at Grad. Gotham University, Class of 1997.'

If there had been any sliver of a doubt before, the open confirmation before him quelled that. It was definitely Mr O D, or rather Mr. Oliver Dent, shaking hands with the unmistakable Harvey Dent. Harvey fucking Dent. Of all people to be related to, of course, he had to be related to Gotham's District Attorney.

It was just Slade's luck.

Slade shuffled from side to side, pocketing the photo and resting the frame on the dresser. From his left pant pocket, he withdrew his phone and was about to dial the number of the Boss when surprisingly, beyond the barrage of sounds from the TV, he heard the couch creak.

He whipped his head up, expecting to meet the wide, open eyes of a man confused and scared by his presence. However, the cause of the creak had not been that Mr O D—Slade preferred his alias before he discovered his surname was _Dent_ —had woken up, but that his left leg had been brought up and crossed over his right, shifting the body's direction more toward Slade. The arm nearest the edge of the couch had dropped and fallen over the edge and his head was now slumped on the armrest.

Given the panic he'd just felt, Slade decided he needed to do something to prevent any sort of interruption during his phone call. He couldn't have Mr O D waking up and either a) running out of the apartment, or b) running _at him,_ whilst he spoke to the Boss. However, he wasn't sure killing him was the right way to go in this case. Things had just become more complicated and he had an inkling that the Boss would want to change up the game plan because of it, so he returned his phone to its original hiding place.

Rummaging through his pockets, he sourced two black cable ties and an old handkerchief. A glance over his shoulder and he picked up his gun off the bedside table—just in case. Slade of all people knew that appearances could be deceiving. A deep breath in as he forced himself through the doorway into the open living room again, eyes focused on his target.

Slade advanced on Mr O D with the stealth he'd learned and honed during his training. Placing his gun somewhere slightly out of Dent's eye range, he took one of the cable ties and gently, quietly, slowly brought his two ankles together then slipped one end through the other, ensuring the pointed end was past the ratchet, before moving to do the same to his arms.

A long, low groan stopped him and made him step back.

Mr O D had stirred and was now shifting on the couch. Slade predicted his next movement correctly, stepping back once more just before Mr O D rolled completely off the couch, his lack of control over his legs keeping him from preventing the fall. The Skittles that had been perched on his exposed belly flew everywhere as he fell, some even hitting Slade as far up as his forearm.

"Wha-what the?!"

Slade stepped forward as he saw Mr O D's hands begin to push up, and firmly placed a steel toe-capped boot below the nape of his neck in between shoulder blades. He dug his heel in just enough to push a sharp gasp from the man on the floor.

"Don't move. Or I'll stomp your head into the ground until you no longer have a face."

Mr O D froze and Slade made a noise of approval in the back of his throat.

He gripped both of Mr O D's arms harshly, eliciting a whimper—what an excuse of a man—and pulled them taut behind his back. He spoke as he fixed the cable ties around his wrists, "Now, you're going to remain here all nice and quiet while I make a phone call."

He shifted forward, gripping the handkerchief in both hands at either end and brought it down over Mr O D's head. "Open."

Slade heard an audible gulp and watched as Mr O D's jaw loosened, and he took the opportunity to slip the handkerchief in between his lips and tie it tightly behind his neck. He straightened and pressed down slightly on the back of Dent's head with his boot. The man took the hint and bowed his face to the floor. Slade sighed and once again took out his phone.

Dialling the Boss' number, he headed to the television set and held down the 'Volume Down' button on the side of the screen. The apartment was engulfed in sweet, blissful silence just as he heard the click on the other end.

Another moment of wonderful silence before an impatient sigh came from the other end.

"Well, what is it, Slade? You in n' out just like that?"

Slade scratched the back of his head at the sound of the gruff, accented voice. If he didn't know the Boss like he did, he would've guessed the accent was put on to come across as some high-flying, tough mobster-type. Instead, the Boss' voice was naturally as rough as it sounded, exacerbated by the numerous cigarettes he puffed on throughout each day. Slade often idly wondered if the smoking would lead to his Boss' death before his occupation did, tempted to make a bet with himself.

"Uh, well, not quite."

A noise of irritation filtered through the receiver, hurrying Slade to finish. "There's been a new development. One I'm fairly certain you'll want to see for yourself."

"Spit it out, Wilson."

"Well, I found a photograph—"

"What did I tell you about fuckin' snoopin' around, huh? You're there to get in, do what yer' paid to do, get out. How hard can tha—"

"I know, I know. But something wasn't quite right, Boss. Anyway, I found this photograph and," Slade sighed as he took the photo out his pocket, brushing his thumb over one of the corners. "And it's the target at some graduation ceremony. He's shaking hands with Harvey Dent."

Silence.

"I took the frame apart and on the back, someone's written 'Uncle Oliver and Harvey at Gra—'"

"Uncle?"

"Uncle."

Slade glanced at Mr O D lying prostrate on the floor, forehead burrowed into the carpet. Faintly, he could see fresh tear tracks down the man's grimy face.

"Right. Stay put. I'll be there with the boys soon. Have you restrained this guy?"

Slade wrinkled his nose as he remembered how awful the apartment was to experience, having only just become acquainted with all the smells and feelings, and nodded his head.

"Yeah, he's tied up on the floor right now," he answered before eyeing the door. "You want me to wait outside? This place is an absolute hellzone."

He heard a snort.

"Are you fucking dumb, Wilson? You go outside, you might get caught or he might get away. Neither of those situations ends well for you. So, stay _put_. You got that?"

Slade murmured his understanding and heard the phone click, his Boss' voice replaced by the dial tone.

He waited for fifteen minutes, continuing to nose around the apartment—this time the kitchen was inspected—and thinking over certain plans he could pose to the Boss. Mr O D had stuck to obeying his order and hadn't made any attempt to move or make a noise, possibly down to the fact that Slade had used the word 'target' to describe him on the phone just a moment ago. Maybe he was now realising the threat his life was under.

Poor guy. Who would care enough to off _this guy_? Honestly, his place was a dump, he looked like he hadn't taken care of himself in _years_ , and yet _someone_ had decided to shell out five grand to rid the world of him. Slade smelled a rat. And it was coming from near the fridge.

With a cough, he turned and trudged back through the filth towards the bedroom doorway. He turned on his heel and faced the front door, not sparing M second glance.

A short, sharp rap on the door broke through the silence and was accompanied by a hoarse voice calling out, "Room service?"

Slade almost chuckled.

The door pushed open to reveal the Boss, flanked by four henchmen with their weapons drawn. Almost immediately, he heard them all gag upon entering the apartment.

That time, Slade did chuckle.

"What did I say, hmm?"

The Boss rounded the corner first and it still baffled Slade how the man could send a single chill down his spine every time he saw him.

Stood just behind the ratty couch, the Boss surveyed the apartment. His three-piece, white pinstriped suit was a stark contrast to the dark, grubby living area and in the television light, he appeared to be faintly glowing. His black leather gloved hands were unclasped and clutched the back of the couch, as he bent over to take a look at the man tied up on the floor.

A ragged chuckle came from his direction and Slade had to stop himself from backing away when the Boss whipped his head up, still in that bent-over position.

It was the part of him he least liked about his boss: the mask affixed to his face.

Ebony—heavily rumoured within the gang to have been taken from the casket of the Boss' father—had been carved into the shape of a skull, complete with sharp angular cheekbones, teeth painted off-white, and holes for where a nose would be. The only indication of something living behind the mask was the presence of cruel, brown eyes glaring out from beneath the empty eye sockets. In the few months Slade had been working for him, he'd never seen it removed. It was ghastly, a turn of his head and he'd had victims screaming, and the glossy finish of it allowed light to manipulate it, making it appear almost _alive_ in ways a mask should not be.

It was only fitting he was known as Black Mask.

"So, this the guy? Jeez, what an anticlimax." Black Mask whistled and straightened up to come around the right side of the couch, black dress shoes inches away from coming into contact with Mr O D's face. He glanced around with eyes narrowed, a look Slade thought was probably disgust. "And what a fuckin' shithole."

It didn't go unnoticed by Slade that the target had started shaking at the sound of the gravelly voice. In a way he almost wished _he_ possessed that kind of power—intimidating just from speaking, appearing—but he'd been taught to wield power in other forms. Literally.

He nodded at Black Mask and stepped forward, boots just grazing Mr O D's left shoulder, arm outreached to pass over the photograph he'd found.

"This is what I was talking about on the phone."

Black Mask took the photo and hummed in understanding.

"There he is. Gotham's _White Knight_ ," he growled before tucking it away inside his suit jacket. He bent over and roughly smacked the back of the man's head. Not a sound came from him. Just as well. Noises only encouraged the Boss. He picked up one of the stray skittles, inspected it, then threw it down harshly on top of the man's head. "Oh, what are we gonna do with you, hmm? Can't kill ya now, can we?" He returned to full height with a satisfied groan and stepped away from him.

"What we _could_ do, however, is we could—wait. He's conscious, ain't he?"

Slade nodded.

"Right. Boys!" Black Mask snapped his fingers at the four goons standing idly nearby, all immediately straightening and inching closer at the call to attention. "Get him outta here and into the car. You know where to put him," the four henchmen nodded. "He ain't big either, so only two of ya should carry him. The other two—you're on _lookout_."

He glanced down again at Mr O D's head and tsked. "And, also, someone bag his head," he rounded on Slade. "Don't you use yours?"

The henchman took care of Mr O D faster than Slade thought them able. One bagged his head with a pillowcase and bunched the ends together with an elastic band. Two of them hoisted and carried him with ease, even as he tried his best to struggle free. A quick twist of his ankles and a muffled yelp later, and he'd given up on trying to stop what was happening. A few moments and then they were out the door.

Shifting his eyes from the door back to the Boss, Slade visibly jumped at finding him already staring back with eyes narrowed.

"How the hell is sweat not pouring from out that helmet? I've been up here five minutes and I feel like I've jumped into a hot tub with my suit on."

Slade actually laughed this time. Truth be told he hadn't really been focusing on the temperature once he'd found the photo.

"I'm trying not to think about how damp I am," he answered truthfully and scratched the back of his neck. The pads of his fingers came away glistening with sweat. "So, no killing him? What do you have in mind instead?"

Black Mask chuckled, a foreboding sound that Slade never wanted to hear directed towards him.

"You'll see, Wilson. Just follow my lead, hmm?"

Slade watched as Black Mask turned away from him, slowly making his way out the door.

"What about the apartment? We need to make it look like we were at least here, for show. Or that someone else was."

Black Mask stopped.

"You seen any cigs around?"

Without answering, Slade strode back into the bedroom and picked up a few of the old cigarette butts spread out on the bed. He came back into the living area holding them up.

Black Mask scoffed. "Nice one. Try and get one of 'em lit, leave it on the couch or on the floor beside it—whichever one smells more of booze." He turned and stood closer to the door.

Slade opted for the floor. He didn't actually smell it—it's not like he was going to get paid extra for that—but it was where more of the beer cans were. Kneeling down, he picked his spot and tentatively held some of the surrounding cans upside down one by one, just to see if there were any dregs left. He felt himself smile when he saw a small puddle form on the floor and hastened to chuck the can away. He retrieved a lighter from his jacket pocket and managed to get two of the butts lit. He placed one at just the edge of the puddle, and the other smack bang in the middle.

About twenty seconds in, a small fire soon broke out, not without further help from Slade lighting and adding to it one of the numerous pieces of junk mail.

Quickly he stood, saw his gun lying on the ground—hopefully the Boss _hadn't_ —and picked it up. Backing away, he watched the flames spread, one side catching onto the bottom of the sofa.

"Alright, it's done," he called out. Turning, he saw that Black Mask had already left, the front door ajar.

Another glance back at the growing fire and it seemed he'd looked just in time: the fire had doubled in size and was encroaching on those bastard speakers. A sudden bang that sounded too much like a gunshot reverberated around the apartment and he watched with glee as the speakers melted into the blaze. With a satisfied smirk, Slade ducked out the door and slammed it shut.

As he ran down the hall, he could hear the sound of a baby's wails growing louder and louder as he reached the stairs.

That stopped his pleasure and his feet. They had only been here to kill one man. What they'd settled on was starting something which had the capability of harming many more. This hadn't been in his contract.

He stepped out of the stairway entry and started banging on doors as he went up and down the hall.

"Fire! Get out! Fire!" He repeatedly yelled. He heard a door open and quickly he shut the visor of his helmet down. They stared at him with a look of tired confusion, obviously woken up by the ruckus he was causing.

"Fire! You gotta get out!"

They nodded hastily and turned from him. He did so too, this time deciding it was time for him to go.

He ran down the stairs just as he'd climbed them: two at a time. He shoved the door open and almost fell flat on the sidewalk due to the momentum. A sleek black car with tinted windows was sat outside just a few steps in front of him, and, once he'd looked up, the back passenger door closest to him was thrown open. Without hesitation, Slade propelled himself into the car and shut the door just as the driver stomped on the accelerator. From his left, the voice like jagged glass came.

"Now, we just bide our time."

* * *

 **A/N:** For those of us who are not Slade Wilson, Mr O D, or Black Mask—now, the story can take off!

From now on, unless I change my mind again, heh, I plan on writing from Annie's POV rather than Harvey's. I just had to stick with his for this one because it's a two-parter. Also, I know a lot of you will be wondering when our Clown Prince of Crime shows up—don't worry. I've been setting the stage for him (he's still in Hair and Makeup at the moment) but he'll arrive soooOooOon enough.

xoxo


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